


I'm Not There

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt from Tea:  </p><p>They survived Project Freelancer, a civil war, and each other for so long - but some things, things like disease, can't be overcome through sheer stubborn willpower. Tucker knew his luck couldn't last forever; he just wants to make sure his son and Wash will have each other when he's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/gifts).



> This is not a happy piece. You've been warned.

     Tucker got the news on a Tuesday.

      It was supposed to be a simple appointment. A routine thing, something Wash had pestered him to set up after weeks of ignoring “you’re due for a visit" notices. He would have forgotten about it in the morning if it wasn’t for his phone reminding him.

     Even the doctors treated it like it was routine, so simple. They drew his blood, listened to his lungs, prattled with him about his service history. The whole affair was so boring Tucker could have fallen asleep in the middle of the thing. When his doctor left the room to double check some reports, Tucker hadn’t even given it a second thought. He was too focused on his son at home, the basketball game he’d be killing it at tonight, the postcard he expected to receive from Grif and Simmons any day now.

     It what the doctor called him when he spoke next that got his attention. Because “Mr. Tucker?” That was standard. “Tucker?” Also common among his friends.  “Lavernius?” Rare, but still used. But “Captain Tucker?” The last time someone called him that, the world had been crashing down around them.

     It was fitting the doctor used that title. In a sense, Tucker mused as he unlocked his front door with robotic precision, his world was falling apart. His lungs. His heart. His life.

     He slung his jacket on the banister, not bothering to pick it up when it fell to the floor. His body felt too heavy to even bother. He slipped off his shoes, trying to keep his eyes away from Junior’s pair. It was hard to do, since Junior’s shoes were always massive and custom ordered to fit his feet. Took overseas shipping and everything. Not that Tucker cared; for his son, he’d do almost anything.

     Somehow he doubted that “not dying” was going to be possible this time. A terminal diagnosis ruled that option out.

     He walked over to the beat up sofa they owned. It was a piece of shit, bought as a housewarming gift from the Reds years ago, but it was his piece of shit and Tucker still refused to throw it away. He could hear the springs shift as he sat down. The whine of the frame.

     “Christ,” he said, leaning forward, tangling his hands in his braids. Junior would be home from school in less than two hours. What was he supposed to tell him? That he’s survived Freelancer and war to die five years after coming home? That he was leaving again, this time for good? How was he supposed to lay that on a kid? His kid. His kid who still chuckled at his bad jokes and ran after cats to pet despite his hulking frame. And that wasn’t even touching what he’d tell Wash when he got home from work-

     “Tucker?”

     The front door opened again and Tucker’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet. He looked up at the figure who’d entered. Standing there in the doorframe was Wash, still in his suit that he wore to his job day in and day out. Around his neck was the same dinosaur tie that Junior had bought him the first year they’d all been home. He placed his bag on the stairs and looked upstairs with a grin on his face. Tucker recognized that face. He fucking treasured it. Seeing Wash happy was something to cherish.

     He’d come home to surprise him, Tucker thought, his stomach sinking.

     “Tucker?” Wash turned towards him, noticing him on the couch for the first time. Any hope Tucker had of not looking like a wreck was dashed with the sudden concern on Wash’s face. It wiped the happiness away in one firm movement. He rushed over to the couch, bending down so he was at Tucker’s level, his knees on the floor. Probably scuffing his pants, which was something Wash always hated. “Tucker you look terrible.”

“Way to-” Tucker cut off the joke before it barely began. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t smile and pretend everything was alright. This seemed to send Wash into more of a panic and he squeezed Tucker’s knee.

“Tucker what’s wrong? Tell me.” Tucker averted his gaze, looking back to the ground. He’d survived a war. He’d survived Freelancer. He could survive this conversation. He had to keep it together. If only for Wash’s sake.

     “Wash,” he said, trying to use a voice he hadn’t used since he had his own squad. Commanding but soft. “You might wanna sit down.”

     Wash reacted exactly how Tucker expected, which was to freeze up at once. He did as he was told though, taking slow robotic movements to stand back up and sit on the couch next to Tucker. He lifted up his right arm, as if to sling it around Tucker’s shoulder for support, but then defaulted back into military mode, placing his hands in his lap. This knuckles were white, showcasing the freckles.

     “What is it?” All emotion was gone from Wash’s voice. It made Tucker want to throw up. It made him sound too much like he had before, back when he was in Freelancer, keeping the urge to scream buried in his throat. Tucker never wanted to do that to him. “Is it Junior?”

     Tucker’s heart panged. God, this man. Tucker considered himself blessed that Wash had taken to Junior so well and vise versa. There had never been any awkwardness between the two. From the week Wash had moved in, Junior had treated him like he’d always lived there. And after getting over his own fears of being a terrible role-model, Wash had stepped up to the Stepfather plate only to hit it out of the park.

     That was a relief, at least. He wasn’t leaving them alone. They’d have each other to prop each other up. Along with the rest of the gang.

     “Wash,” Tucker said, he said his voice trembling. “I went to see the doctor today. The news wasn’t good.”

       Wash sucked in a deep breath. Those words told far too much. As Tucker delivered the rest of the news, the part about what it was, Wash reached up to squeeze Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker wasn’t sure if it was meant to comfort himself, or to reassure Wash he was still there.

     “Okay,” Wash said, his voice going into tactics mode. Trying to find solutions to problems. “Did you get a referral to a specialist? Have you started talking about treatment? We can afford whatever it is, we got enough money between-”

     “Wash.” Tucker reached down to grab on of Wash’s shaking hands. The tremors weren’t very noticeable but as soon as their skin touched, Tucker could feel every vibration being held back by sheer willpower. He looked Wash in the eyes. He’d always had beautiful eyes. “There isn’t a treatment.”

     Wash’s eyes widened. “What do you mean-”

     “What you think it means. I got a year, man. Probably less.”

      Wash stared at him for what felt like an hour. He wasn’t really looking at him anymore, really, his gaze distracted by another moment, another time. Tucker could only imagine what he was thinking about.

      Tucker looked towards the photo on one of the living room tables. It wasn’t old taken barely a year ago. The whole gang was there, joined together for one of their biannual meet ups. Carolina was in the center of the picture, the chip that once contained Epsilon hanging around her neck, the AI himself standing right behind her in a new android body. Grif and Simmons were standing next to Sarge, Dr. Grey leaning into the former Red Team leader with a huge grin on her face. Doc and Donut were in the right corner, their baby girl sitting on Kai’s shoulders. Caboose and his dog were in the other corner, right next to Tucker, Junior and Wash. His friends. His family. And he was going to have to tell them all.

     Tucker didn’t realize he was crying until Wash grabbed him by the shoulders, pressing Tucker’s face to his chest. Tucker could his tie press up against his cheek. There was a hand running through his hair, gentle but steady, and a voice at his ear.

     “It’s going to be okay,” Wash said, his voice just a little shaky. “It’s going to be okay.”

     “How am I gonna tell em’? How am I gonna tell Junior?” Wash made a soothing noise that sounded far too close to a sob and pulled him even closer. Tucker could feel his lips press a kiss to his forehead.

     “I’ll take care of it. It’s going to be okay.”

     Tucker wished that he could believe him.

* * *

 

     The next month was chaotic, to say the least.

     Carolina, Wash and Epsilon were determined to find a more optimistic diagnosis, dragging him from specialist to specialist.  His friends came up in droves, Caboose lingering around the weekends, Grif and Simmons ditching their beautiful house in Hawaii just to be close by. Donut and Doc began to visit with increasing frequency, often dragging Sarge with them. Tucker’s house grew from a three man residence to a common hotel for his friends who could be found passed out on couches and sleeping on the floor.

     It was nice. Loud and messy but nice. Like the old days with less gunfire.

     Junior was...surviving. He’d reacted like Tucker expected, a mess of tears and alien snot, but he was trying to keep his chin up as the weeks passed by. He went to school without complaint and did his homework on time. And on the occasional days that Tucker would open his door to find him looking lost, well, Tucker could excuse some playing hooky in times like this. Spending time with his son wasn’t something to pass down. All things considered, it could be a lot worse. This dying business.

     The bad days still sucked though.

     “Tucker.” Tucker moaned, closing his eyes as the door to his bedroom opened. Since waking up this morning with a killer headache, he hadn’t moved an inch, trying to bury himself underneath the blankets until the pain went away. His friends had come in a few times during the day, Wash making an appearance every hour. He was peering through the door now, a glass of water in his hands.

     “Dude, close the door,” Tucker said, throwing his arm over his eyes. “The light is killing me.”

     There was an awkward pause and Tucker realized his word choice might have been poorly chosen. He heard Wash walk towards him and place the glass of water on his bedside table. There was a kiss to his forehead again. Wash had been doing that quite a bit lately; displays of affection. He hadn’t been against it before but it had never been quite this frequent.

      “Feeling better?”

     Tucker moved his arm to the side and opened one eye. “Not really but you’re helping for sure.” He glanced at the cup and scowled. “A red cup? Really?”

     Wash chuckled, but he kept the noise quiet. “Sarge thought it might cheer you up.”

      “Sarge thinks seeing his entire shotgun collection might cheer me up.” He glanced towards the clock. It was after dinner, but not too late. “What’s up?”

     “Junior’s got a basketball game. I wanted to see if you were going to make it.”

      Tucker thought about it for a second; pulling himself and his migraine out of bed and driving all the way to Junior’s high school. He could do it, though given the way his stomach had been complaining for the last hour, there was a good chance he might end up puking on the bleachers. Which would just cause a scene.

     “I don’t think so, unless you want me to vomit on the PTA.” Tucker smirked, moving his arm so he could look at Wash fully. The dark circles under Wash’s eyes were worrisome and Tucker made a mental note to talk to him about it later. “Though that might be worth it, since they bitched about him being on the team in the first place. Think I’ll be able to nail em?”

     Wash rolled his eyes, but there was still a smile on his face. “Tucker, be serious.”

     “I’m being serious, man! This is a prime time opportunity!” He laughed a little himself and while the noise made his migraine worse, he didn’t regret it. “No but really, go without me.”

     Wash frowned at that, the corners of his lips turning down in one firm motion, his brow wrinkling. It made his freckles mush together. “You sure you don’t want me to stay here?”

     “No, no. Sarge can watch my ass, someone’s gotta take pictures of our kid.” He nudged Wash in the stomach. “Go. Have fun. It’ll be good practice.”

     “Practice?”

     Tucker cringed. He didn’t mean to say that. When it came to migraines, his internal filter always went to shit. Things that were meant to stay in his skull barged their way out to make a fool of themselves. He cleared his throat.

     “Yeah. You know. For later.”

     Wash tensed, his fists digging into the bed sheets. Tucker thought he heard some of the fabric tear. The ex-freelancer closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. It reminded Tucker far too much of when he was trying to stave off panic attacks.

     “Look, I’m sorry to bring it up, okay? I’m still a little out of it.” Wash didn’t move. “Come’on, you’re gonna be late, and then you’re gonna get shitty seats and all your pictures are going to consist of the back of some balding dudes head.” Wash still didn’t budge. A flicker of worry came to life in Tucker’s chest. Over the last month, Wash had been so good about everything, carrying Tucker through God knows how many breakdowns. Tucker thought he’d just been coping well. Only at this moment did it dawn on Tucker that Wash might not be coping at all. “Wash? Are you okay?” Then again. “David?”

     That seemed to snap him out of it. Wash opened his eyes surprised and shook his head, like he was trying to get a grasp on what was going on. He looked down at Tucker and let go of the sheets.

     “I’m fine. You’re right, I better go.” He bent down to give Tucker another kiss before leaving for the door.

     As Tucker watched him leave, he hoped he was imagining the limp that seemed to be in his stride.

 

* * *

 

      Later that night, Wash woke up screaming.

     Tucker was used to these, in a sense. The nightmares. All of their friends had them, Tucker himself included, and while Wash’s were worse than his own, he was pretty good at dealing with  them. There was a process; wake Wash up, ground him in the now, and listen. It was simple enough.

     What Tucker was not used to, was Wash having these nightmares and screaming his name.

     “Tucker!” Tucker woke up with a start to find Wash screaming next to him, clawing at the sheets for purchase, his eyes squeezed tight with pain. Tucker sat up at once, ignoring the pain in his skull. Wash was going to wake the whole house.

      “Wash,” he said, forceful. He made sure not to touch the man; sometimes he woke up swinging. “Wash, wake up.” It did the trick. Wash’s eyes flew open and he gasped for air. Gasped like he’d been drowning.

     That was Tucker’s cue. He moved over so he was sitting next to Wash and bent over to hold his head in his hands. Wash eyes, which had been searching the room desperately, settled on his face. He was still breathing fast.

      “Tucker. Felix...he-” Wash seemed on the edge of hyperventilating. Tucker knew what his nightmare had been about at once. Even though his stab wound from the merc had long healed, Wash’s nightmares of the incident had never faded. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wake up dreaming that Felix’s knife had left more than a scar. Tucker made a soothing noise.

      “Dude, that was years ago. That bitch is dead. We’re fine. I’m fine.” Wash’s breathing slowed a bit, his eyes still firmly focused on Tucker’s face. “See? I look fucking great. Breathing and everything.”

     What he expected next was Wash to start calming. For his breathing to go back to normal. For him to ask a few more questions or so. Instead, Wash’s eyes began to well up with tears.

     “Wash?” Tucker barely managed to ask the question before Wash drew him in close, burying his face into his chest. His nose was cold, Wash always had shit circulation, and Tucker could feel tears drip down his torso. Wash seemed to be out of danger from hyperventilating, but given the way he was sobbing, Tucker had bigger worries on his mind.

     Wash didn’t cry much. Freelancer had drained most of his tears from him by force. Even when he did start to tear up, it was never a big show, always soft and restrained. LIke one of those cowboys in Western movies. Not like this. Not this sound of a howling animal, trying to choke back tears. Not this frightening shuddering he made with each breath.

     Tucker heard the door open. He looked up to find Sarge standing in the doorway, concerned. He’d probably heard the noise from downstairs. Junior must be right behind him. Being careful not to alert Wash, Tucker gave the older man a gesture to shoo. Sarge’s eyes softened and he closed the door once more, the thin trail of light it let in vanishing with the movement.

     “Hey, hey,” Tucker said, looking down at Wash. His hands were digging into Tucker’s back. “What’s wrong?”

     It was hard to hear Wash at first through his sobbing, but Tucker picked it up eventually. He was talking all at once, a blurred sentence of words, falling from his lips the same way tears were spilling from his eyes.

     “You’re not okay. You’re not okay. You’re fucking dying, and I’m gonna have to wake up one day to bury you and I can’t do that, I can’t do that again, I can’t stand next to Junior while you’re fucking dead and tell him everything is alright, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready-”

     Wash’s facade of coping fell away in those few sentences. Tucker looked down at Wash who was still rambling and sobbing. How did he miss this? How did he miss Wash breaking down in front of him? What was he supposed to say to true words?

     Tucker wasn’t sure. He doubted he’d ever be. So he did what he could. Bent his head down. Pressed a kiss to Wash’s forehead like Wash had done to him so many times in the past. Tried to keep his voice steady.

     “I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> If it helps, pretend after this Tucker is cured and everything is okay. I'm the author, you're free to choose this ending, trust me.


End file.
